


The Perfect Man

by hopefulwriter27



Category: Dexter (TV), Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-10
Updated: 2010-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefulwriter27/pseuds/hopefulwriter27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dad is dead. Dean is pretty sure of this fact. He's been gone three weeks without any word or sign of his whereabouts. Three weeks is a long time spent without his boys, and Dean knows that his dad would miss him too much to be gone that long. Dad always said he missed Dean when he left for a hunt.<br/>Warning: evil!Dean, slutty!Dean, evil!Sam, underage sex</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dad is dead. Dean is pretty sure of this fact. He’s been gone threeweeks without any word or sign of his whereabouts. Three weeks is a long time spent withouthis boys, and Dean knows that Dad would miss him too much to be gone for that long. Dad always says he misses Dean when he goes on a hunt. He misses the way Dean swallows, unless of course Dad tells him otherwise. Dad tells Dean that he misses the way Dean says, “Yes sir,” and never, “No.”  Dad can’t spend three weeks without Dean. Dean knows that for a fact.

Dean misses him at first. He misses the way Dad’s large hands would curve around the back of his head, holding him tight while he fucks Dean’s mouth. Dean misses his father’s detailed instructions on how to kill. Dean misses hunting with his father. However, Dean has eleven-year old Sammy to worry about, so he doesn’t focus too much on missing Dad.

At first Sammy asks, “Where’s Daddy?” but then, after the first week, Sammy just doesn’t care. Dean knows Sammy likes him best. He is okay with that. He likes Sammy best too. When the fourth week comes and goes, Sammy kicks at the snow and says, “Stupid cold. I wish it was always warm.” So Dean takes his fake ID, packs up their belongings in the Impala, and drives fourteen hundred miles south from Buffalo, New York, to Miami, Florida. Permanent summer sounds great.

He gets pulled over once. He is going ninety-three down Interstate 95, through the city of Titusville, Flordia when the blue and red lights flash in his rearview mirror. With the window down he can smell the salt of the ocean. It reminds him of other things and makes his mouth water. So when the officer asks for a license and registration, Dean hands him the fake documents then proceeds to wrap his mouth around the man’s cock and suck for all he is worth. He kindly zips the man back up. He also remembers every detail of Office Bartman’s face. The thick red hair and chocolate eyes. The fifteen freckles across his nose. Later on, once Sammy is settled into school again, Dean plans on paying the noble officer a visit with his Browning nine millimeter hand gun. He can already picture all the beautiful blood and guts.

Dean searches for the best school district in Miami. He wants Sammy to have the best. He settles them into an empty apartment and registers Sammy for the spring semester into the Dade School District. He walks Sammy to school every morning and home every afternoon. Sometimes he will stop at the park and push Sammy on the swings. On the weekends they both swim in the apartment complex's pool. Both of them love the warm weather.

During the day Dean fucks. Nameless tricks give him money for quick blowjobs and even more money for a chance at his ass. Dean happily takes their money then commits their faces to memory. Once he finds what he’s looking for he plans to do beautiful things to those men. He searches high and low. He begins with locals. Brown haired, bleached blondes, fake purples- he looks for the perfect person. Sammy asks, “What are you looking for?”

It’s hard for Dean to describe. “Someone to show me the way. Someone who loves me and I love them. Someone strong and sexy and right.”

Dean knows he hasn’t explained it right and Sam bites on his lower lip and demands, “What’s wrong with me?”

Dean sighs. “Nothing is wrong with you. You’re perfect.” He means it. He reaches out and cuddles his brother close. Sammy’s hair smells like apple shampoo and salt. Dean thinks he would be happy to smell that forever. “You’re just not old enough yet.” Sammy doesn’t like that answer and he scrunches up his nose to protest. “When you’re older. I promise.” Sammy nods and goes to the kitchen table to finish his homework.

Dean continues to look. He’s finds a few promising candidates. One is a bulky Cuban man in his late forties. He’s got thick black hair and beautifully smooth skin. Dean follows him for two weeks and sees him murder four people. But one night he gets into a fight with another Cuban man, gets punched in the face, and he spends the rest of the night bitching about it to someone on the phone. Dean immediately crosses the man off his list. He doesn’t like whiners.

Another promising candidate is a man named Henry Miller. He’s got a plain name, but there is nothing plain about him. A towering six-foot four and muscled like a bear, Dean’s mouth waters at the sight of him. A snake tattoo crawls up Henry’s left arm and a giant spider bulges out on his left bicep. At night, after Sammy’s gone to bed, Dean spends hours reading his police file. Arson, manslaughter, armed robbery are all descriptively detailed in a book of felonies and misdemeanors. Dean falls back onto his pillow, wrapping a hand around himself thinking about warm blood and Henry Miller’s spider tattoo. Then Henry is caught with his hands around a woman’s throat with two dead men around him, one of whom is a cop. He is shot three times by the responding officers. Dean mourns his lost by eating Jack-in-the-Box for a week, but then Sammy says, “He was stupid to get caught so many times,” and Dean revels in his brother’s intelligence.

Four months go by since they’ve moved to Miami, and Dean starts to feel depressed with his failures. Sex is starting to lose its appeal. He wants something meaningful, not just random fucks in alleyways. One day, after he spends the morning helping Sammy study for a spelling test, he finds himself leaning against a brick wall with fat Joe sliding in and out of him. Joe is huffing and puffing behind him and Dean just feels bored. Joe finishes with a shuddered groan.  Dean turns around and looks into Joe’s dark black face. Everything condenses- Dean’s loneliness since Dad died, his stressful search for the perfect man, his boredom- and he lashes out. Before Joe has the chance to look surprised Dean has kicked him in the knee hard enough to fell. The silent slide of his lockback knife flipping open is blessedly comforting, but it’s nothing compared to the rush of pleasure he gets from slicing the blade through Joe’s thick throat.

Hot, red blood gurgles out, splashing over Dean’s hands and shirt. A bit even gets on his face. Joe’s fingers shoot to his neck, but there’s nothing the man can do. Dean knows where and how hard to slice. The man falls over onto the dirty street, and Dean watches in awe as blood pools outwards. Bigger and bigger the bloodstain becomes. Dean wishes Sammy was here to witness how the beautiful red color covers the filth of ground. Dean stands there until his alarm watch beeps reminding him to go home and get ready to pick up his brother.

Later on, after he excitedly tells Sammy all about it over macaroni and cheese, Dean takes his brother back to the scene. Dean figures that Joe won’t still be there, but he can at least show Sammy the bloodstain. Sammy clenches Dean’s hand the whole way and keeps shooting his brother these happy little grins. However, when they get to the spot, police are everywhere. Yellow caution takes marks off the scene while uniforms and detectives meander around searching for clues.

 Sammy shoots him a worried glance when they are stopped by an officer and forced to turn around. Dean mouths, “don’t worry” to his little brother. He’s always been careful to destroy any evidence of his inclusion. He wears gloves, carries alcohol wipes, and searches for hair when he’s finished. Even so, Dean suspects that this alleyway is so full of fingerprints, DNA, and other information from the hundreds of boys and men who frequent it, that the police won’t be able to tell tit from tat. It’s one of the reasons Dean chose the alleyway.

He and Sammy walk across the street and stand in front of a twenty-four hour convenience store. A red neon ‘Open’ sign shines over Sammy’s head, casting a shadow of pink across the boy’s face. Dean thinks it makes Sammy look handsome. They watch, along with dozens of others, as at the police work. Four squad cars and three non marked cars block most of the action, but the boys can still pick up the buzz of excitement from where they stand. Conversation flows around them, but they just watch, content. Finally, they bring the body out. Dean is disappointed that Joe is hidden within a body bag, but he nudges Sammy anyways when they slide the bag into the ambulance.  A proud smile is sent his way. Dean can’t help but puff out his chest.

Then Dean spots him. He’s got golden brown hair that curls just above his ears. A handsome face matches a well toned body and a healthy sheen. These things are nice, but they aren’t what really capture Dean’s attention. No, it’s the dark blood over white gloves snapped tight around the man’s hands and the thrilled smirk on his face that entrap the eldest Winchester. A police ID hangs on lanyard over the man’s neck. Despite the obvious appearance of ‘good guy’- clean-cut clothes, law force job, pleasant demeanor- Dean can recognize a predator anywhere. In just a glimpse, Dean knows this man is dangerous and powerful. His heart beats double-time and a drop of sweat slides down his forehead.

A yank pulls his attention away from the man, and Dean looks over at his brother. Sammy’s eyes flicker between Dean and the stranger. He says, “His name is Dexter Morgan.”

Dean wipes the sweat away with the back of his free hand, the other still entwined with Sammy’s, and asks, “How do you know?”

Sammy looks back to Dexter Morgan and replies, “I had a dream about him.”

Dean swallows then nods. Sometimes Sammy dreams. “What did you dream?” Dean feels nervous like the first time Dad threaded his fingers through Dean’s hair and made Dean lick him.

“He’s the right one.” Happy energy jumps through Dean’s veins, and he can’t help but take a step forward. Sammy, rightfully, pulls him back.       




“You won’t forget me right?”

Dean swivels around, mouth open. “What! Of course not!” He drops to his knees so he can look Sammy in the eyes. He’s chewing on his lips and Dean runs a thumb down Sammy’s jaw. “Sammy, I’ll never-ever, forget you. Dexter Morgan, well, he’s a now thing. He’ll teach me what I need. He’ll keep me occupied until you’re old enough.” He pulls Sammy to his shoulder and wraps his arms around Sammy’s torso. “Just think of what we’ll do together in the future. We’ll make the world beautifully red. People will know our names. We’re each other’s forevers.”

Sammy leans back and Dean can see tears glistening in his eyes. “Yeah,” he sniffs.

Dean ruffles his hair. “Yeah” He stands back up and takes Sammy’s hand again. They both watch as Dexter Morgan talks to a Hispanic woman. Dean wants to run over and take his bloody fingers into his mouth. He wants to kiss Dexter’s lips and suck at his neck. He wants hunt and slice and kill.  

“Come on,” he says to his brother, “let’s go home and you can help me learn all about Dexter Morgan.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean follows Dexter Morgan for thirty-two days before talking to him. He would have made his move much sooner, but Sammy kept telling him that Dexter isn’t ready for Dean. So Dean obsesses. He reads every newspaper article, forensic journal, and stolen police report that mentions Dexter’s name. He reads them so often that the paper crumbles under his fingertips. Sammy sighs and prints him out more copies.

He follows Dexter around and learns. He learns that Dexter Morgan has one sister named Debra, who is a detective. Dean likes the way they talk to each other. They tease and taunt while showing never-ending support for each other’s lives. Well, Debra shows support for what she knows. She’s no Sammy though. Dean learns that Dexter’s parents are dead, both his biological and adoptive ones, and Dean crows at their shared similarity. He follows Dexter to a quaint suburban house and finds a cute blonde woman named Rita and her two children. Astor, the oldest child is almost Sammy’s age, and Cody is an adorable little boy. Dean approves of Dexter’s chosen family.

By day, Dexter is a blood-spatter analyst. He goes to crime scenes and looks at the patterns of blood. Dean never knew such a job existed, and he’s in awe that Dexter gets paid to play with blood. He wonders if Sammy will grow up to be a blood-spatter analyst. Dexter loves burritos and New York strip steak and lemon ices. Dean practices making the perfect steak, all thin charred lines on the outside and pink tender meat on the inside. Sammy appreciates each and every attempt. 

Dean watches and watches, but never takes action. It’s torture. He’s an action kind of guy and all this waiting makes his skin itch. He wants nothing more to smile at Dexter, press against his side, and share hot kisses over spilled life. The only thing that gives him patience is that he has yet to witness Dexter kill. Thirty-two days of observing has left Dean with acute knowledge of Dexter’s life and patterns, but with little information on how Dexter likes to take life.

He imagines Dexter is a prepared killer. Dexter has finely tuned self-control. He’s a master of pretending, way better than Dad ever was, and Dean’s noticed that the man does everything with careful thought. Then on the thirty-second night, while Dean stalks the analyst to a slum house in the heart of the city, he witnesses a murder.

It’s as beautiful as Dean imagined it to be.  It starts with Dexter approaching a man in the parking lot of a run-down old bar. The victim, who appears tough in his own right with scars and tattoos decorating his skin, is slightly intoxicated. Dexter bumps into the man, pretending to share the intoxication. The man lets out a solid “fuck you” then Dexter is on him. A thin needle slides into man’s neck and Dexter injects him with something. Not five seconds later the man collapses into Dexter’s strong arms. Black gloved hands drag the unconscious body into the back of Dexter’s minivan.

As Dexter drives away, Dean runs back to the Impala. The car roars to a start, and for the first time in his life Dean wishes the Impala is different. If only it is quieter. Luck is on his side though, because Dexter never turns back. Dean follows him until the minivan turns down an alleyway and parks behind the broken house. Dean turns around and parks a few blocks away. He gives a sparing thought to leaving the Impala in such a bad neighborhood, but the need to see Dexter wins out. He locks the doors, shoves the keys in his jean pocket, and runs the all the way back to the house.

At first Dean can’t find Dexter or stolen the man. He does a complete circle around the house, but every window is securely boarded shut. The front door is closed, and Dean figures it is probably unlocked, but he doesn’t try to use it. In a house this old and run-down, a squeaky door is a guarantee. After a few more laps around the house, Dean spots an open space between two boards on a second story window. It’s small, but he’s thin enough to squeeze through. Getting up there is the hard part. He ends up using two of his knives as handles. He sticks them into the rotting wood; they’re sharp enough to slide in easily. One goes as far above his head as he can reach and the other slightly below the first. With a deep breath, he levers himself up. The knives are moved four more times before his fingers brush the edge of the window sill.

Ignoring his aching arms, Dean sticks his head between the boards and looks around. It’s dark inside and he has to wait until his eyes adjust. Finally, he can see the room is empty. He pulls himself through.  He lands with a soft thump; his heart leaps into his throat. _Did Dexter hear?_ he worries. Settled on the dusty wooden floor, Dean waits. He hears nothing- no footsteps creaking up steps or panicked breathing. So, he gets to his feet, leans out the window and yanks out his knives. They get wiped off on his jeans and put back into their sheathes.

Seconds tick by as Dean wanders carefully through the house. The whole upstairs is devoid of life. There are three small bedrooms, two of which are occupied with an abundance of broken furniture. A tiny bathroom bisects the two bedrooms, but it smells foul and Dean only briefly glances inside. Dexter is not here. He comes to the stairs and looks down at his boots. They are heavy enough that they will most likely cause the stairs to groan, but the stairs are also filthy enough that Dean worries about stepping on a nail or a protruding piece of wood.  The boots stay on.

Slowly, Dean walks down the stairs. By the time he reaches the bottom his lungs are screaming from holding his breath.  Once safely at the bottom, he shakes his head and silently congratulates himself on being sneaky.  If only Sammy saw him then. He goes forward, through the foyer and living room and is about to turn the corner into the kitchen when a shadow jumps across the arched frame. A shiver takes him and Dean glances down at his bare arms. Goosebumps prickle his skin and his hair is raised. He’s found Dexter.

Inch by inch he creeps forward. His back is flushed against the wall; his eyes are glued forward. The smell of candle wax and lit flame wafts from the kitchen, and as Dean comes closer he can see light flicker across the far wall. He stops before the wall ends and opens into the kitchen. Risking a glance, Dean peers around the corner. The sight steals his breath.  

Dexter’s back is towards him, and he’s leaning over the kitchen counter touching something in front of him. The man is dressed in a clear poncho, plastic hood and all. Thin white gloves, similar to the ones Dean first saw Dexter in, are snapped tight around his hands.  Goggles sit atop his head- the plastic strap snuggled within his hair. To the left of the man sits a chainsaw. At the sight Dean’s mouth floods with saliva.

That’s not everything. Dead center on the kitchen floor sits a table. It’s covered in plastic, like everything else in the whole room, and duck taped to the table is the tattooed man. He’s naked. The tape is strategically placed over his feet, groin, chest and head. A cloth gag is stuffed in his mouth, but Dean sees no need for it. The man is still unconscious. Half a dozen candles are lit around the room. They light up pictures of teenage girls. Dean recognizes none of them.

Dexter moves and Dean slams himself backwards. The tiles click under Dexter’s feet and the plastic crunches with every movement. Dean wants to lean forward and watch again, but he’s afraid to be spotted. So instead he watches the reflection of the light and listens. For a minute or two there’s nothing, then there’s a gasp. The man is waking up.

“Good you’re awake. I was afraid I’d miscalculated your weight.” Dexter’s smooth voice slides over Dean’s skin. He wishes he could see the tied man’s expression.

There’s a groan and then, “Who the fuck are you?” The victim’s voice is raspy from years of smoking.  Dean can hear the anger and fear in his voice.

Dexter chuckles. “You always ask the same questions. Who am I? What do I want? What are you going to do to me?” Plastic crunches. “Are you going to be so cliché?” Another string of curses flutter out. Dean smiles.

“What the fuck are those?” More fear than anger now colors the man’s voice. Dean desperately wants to know what Dexter is doing.

“Ah, I see you’ve found your victims.”

 _Victims? _Dean thinks. _That man killed those girls?_ The curiosity eats him alive.

 “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man denies.

Footfalls echoed across the kitchen. Dean imagines Dexter is picking up one of the frames. “This is Jenna Hines,” Dexter says, “She was sixteen when you raped and killed her. And she, to jog your memory, is Heidi Martin. She was one month from getting married when you raped and mutilated her.”

There is a stretched silence then the man snaps back, “Those girls were asking for it. They wanted me to fuck them.”

"Hmm, did they? I don’t think so,” Dexter replies. A heartbeat goes by and then the man screams. Dean almost jumps forward, desperate to see.

“Please, I’ll confess. Just let me go. I’ll go straight to the police.”  

Dexter’s happy laughter curls around Dean. He falls back against the wall again, licking his lips. “Unfortunately for you, I am the police, and I’ve decided it’s time for you to go.” The man begins to cry, but the sound is quickly drowned out by the start of the chainsaw. Dean trails his hand down his stomach and slips it under the waistband of his jeans. His skin feels hot. The chainsaw stutters as it tears through flesh and arousal makes his knees weak.

Trembling, Dean slides to the floor. He unbuttons his pants, bypasses his boxers, and wraps a sweat-slicked hand around himself. The chainsaw continues to roar, and Dean imagines Dexter cutting the man to pieces. He imagines a river of red blood under the table and Dexter’s clear poncho opaque with life and guts and body parts. His strokes become faster and faster until stars explode across his brain.  His eyes slam shut as his head smacks into the wall. It’s not until he’s coming down that he realizes the chainsaw has stopped and he’s screamed out his release.

He scrambles up, but it’s too late. Boots vibrate the floor, and suddenly, Dexter’s there. The man is so beautiful that Dean arousal rises again. Blood splashed like red paint across his torso and face, eyes covered by clear goggles, Dexter is right out of Dean’s wet dreams. When he spots Dean the look of enjoyment fades from his face. That Dean doesn’t like. The boy takes an unconscious step forward.

“Who are you?” Dexter echoes dead man’s words. He pushes forward, forcing Dean backwards into the wall. Dexter’s hand slides to his neck, a cold scalpel in hand. The blade presses into Dean’s soft flesh, splicing and send warm blood down his neckline. Dean shudders.

He can’t answer Dexter’s question. All this time he’s imagined, even practiced, what he would say to Dexter on their first meeting. Those words tumble out his brain as he looks into the man’s cold hazel eyes. Instead, like a moth to a flame, he raises his hand and gently runs his fingers through the warm blood on Dexter’s shoulder. He brings his hand up between them. Blood and sweat and semen drip in the valleys between his fingers and Dean can’t help himself. He leans forward, scalpel slicing deeper, and licks. Salt and copper burst across his taste buds; he hardens even more.

The knife at his neck pulls back, and Dean looks at Dexter through lowered eyelashes. “What are you?” Dexter asks with morbid interest. Dean sways closer, bumps his legs into Dexter’s.  When Dexter does nothing, he leans in and presses his cheek onto the hard, blood slicked muscle of the other man’s chest.

The only thing he can think to say is, “I love you.” 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Contrary to his own words, Dean doesn’t love Dexter. In the heat of the moment, when blood and sex drip from his fingers, Dean feels like he’s in love. He’s definitely infatuated and somewhat euphoric. However, what he feels towards Dexter is nothing like what he feels towards Sammy. Dean knows he loves Sammy. So immediately after he says the words, guilt floods him. He’s glad Sammy isn’t here to witness the declaration. He would have been hurt, and Dexter would have probably been dead. Dean had no illusions to Sammy’s capabilities. Sometimes he even wonders if Sammy had something to do with Dad’s disappearance. His brother hates sharing. 

“You’ve been following me,” Dexter says. Dean can feel the rumble of his words where his cheek is still pressed against Dexter’s chest.

Dean pulls back in surprise. “You’ve noticed?” He thought he was stealthy enough not to be spotted. Blood trickles down his cheek and catches at the corner of his mouth. He licks his lips.

A hand grasps his face, and suddenly he’s being forced to look up. There’s matching blood on Dexter’s face, and Dean finds he doesn’t mind staring at all. “I knew someone was. I didn’t expect it to be a child.”

Dean shakes Dexter’s hand away. “I’m not a child. I’m fifteen.” Dexter raises an eyebrow.  “I bet you were killing at fifteen.” Darkness seeps into Dexter’s eyes, and Dean knows he’s stuck truth.

“Why have you been following me?”

“I’ve been looking for someone. A teacher. I found you,” Dean says, like that explains everything. Dexter’s eyes flick back to the kitchen. Dean charges forward. He wants to see the body.

“Hey,” Dexter calls out. Dean can’t answer. He’s speechless at the beauty before him. Where a man once lay, there’s nothing but gore. The head’s rolled off the table and rests still on the plastic covered floor. White bone peeks out where the skull once attached to the neck. The man’s skin looks like pale sandpaper. Dexter has sawed through the shoulders and groin, where the limbs once attached to the torso, and at the knees.  _Seven peaceful body parts laying in a row,_ Dean thinks. _Seven is a lucky number. _He was seven the first time he took life. Dad had been watching from the shadows, and when Dean finished, Dad had lifted him into his arms and pressed sweet kisses all over his face and neck.  

A box of opened garbage bags, the expensive biodegradable kind, sit at the edge of the table, waiting to be put to use. _He cuts the body apart to fit in the bags, so they’re not too heavy, _Dean concludes. It’s simple, yet effective. Heat flares at his shoulder. Dean whips around. Dexter has snuck up on him. The man leans forward until his lips are pressed behind Dean’s left ear. Moist breath sticks to his skin as Dexter says, “I kill killers.” Dean’s eyes flutter shut. “People like you,” he clarifies.

Dean twists then curls both hands in Dexter’s bloody poncho. The man is almost a head taller than him, and the height difference puts Dean’s mouth level with Dexter’s jugular. He leans in and gently scrapes his teeth across Dexter’s flesh. A large hand tangles in his hair and, for one quick second presses Dean closer. Then he’s yanked away; Dexter’s hand tangles in his hair once again. “I can kill killers too,” Dean offers. He’s not picky. Dad used to like to hunt down bad people. Well, bad people, good people, old people and young people. Dad was never prejudice, and Dean isn’t either. Dexter frowns, so Dean quickly adds, “I’ll help you clean up.”

_Cleanliness is next to Godliness, _Dad used to whisper as he wiped Dean’s release from his belly.

Time comes to a standstill. The ever-present ocean smell hangs in the air, and while Dean loves the smell, it’s nothing compared to Dexter’s hot, musky scent. He wishes Dexter would just give in and fuck him against the wall. Or on the table after they move the body. Anywhere Dean can lick the blood off his face while the man slides in and out of him. Dexter stares at him, eyes cold yet thoughtful. The scalpel twirls between his fingers. The man is a master at hiding his thoughts, and for a second Dean worries that Dexter is going lash out and end him.

He doesn’t. The hand in his hair drops away and Dexter brushes past Dean. Their shoulders touch and Dean is momentarily distracted. Dexter goes to the table and pulls out a trash bag. He squats down, grabs the severed head by the hair and holds it up for a second. For the first time Dean can see the ex-rapist had blue eyes. Dean’s always preferred hazel. He loves the way they can seem green one minute and brown the next depending on the sunlight or the shirt the person is wearing. Both Sammy and Dexter have hazel eyes.

Sooner than he would have liked, Dexter places the head inside the trash bag. He stands and steps to the long side of the table. The left arm goes into the bag along with the head. Blood dribbles to the floor, adding to the red pool on the tile. The trash bag crinkles as Dexter ties it shut. He sets the bag aside then reaches over to pull out another. He looks over his shoulder, eyes catching Dean’s, and asks, “Well?”

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He scrambles forward, boots squishing in the blood. Plastic rises with each step he takes, trying valiantly to stick to his soles. He should have taken his boots off. _Too late now, _he thinks. His hips bump into Dexter’s and his stomach presses into the thin rim of the table. Wetness seeps through his shirt, and he’s a little sad that he’s wearing black. A nice white shirt would contrast the blood brilliantly.

“Do you have gloves?”

Dean nods. “Yeah.”He never goes anywhere without gloves. Gloves or condoms. It takes a little effort to pull them out of his back pocket; his fingers are too sticky. When he finally gets them out, his eyes flicker from his dirty fingers to the clean gloves. Dexter’s lips press together and then he goes over the kitchen counter. Now that Dean is in the kitchen, he can see the supplies sitting on the surface. There is a case of blades, all shinning silver and sterile. There is a three pack of sanitizing wipes, a bottle of bleach, a package of paper towels, and a container of baby wipes. Dexter pops open the baby wipes and draws out a few.

“Here,” he offers, “take these and clean your hands.”

Dean does. The gloves go on easy. They’re not as high quality as Dexter’s gloves, but they’ll to the trick. Sammy had bought them for Dean after he had complained about how the other kind, the kind with powder on the inside, made his skin itch. Dean had found the non-allergenic box sitting on his bed the next Saturday morning.    




“It’s too late for your clothes. You’ll have to burn them when we’re finished.” Dean nods. He’s thankful he’s not wearing his leather jacket. They both walk back to the table, and Dean picks up a leg. Dexter shakes open the bag and waits while Dean sets the leg inside. They work in silence, bagging up the body.

When all the parts are hidden within the tied bags, Dean looks over to Dexter. Blood still drips down his poncho, occasionally falling far enough to hit the ground. _A poncho would be useful, _he thinks. They’re cheap, easy clean up, and keep your clothes clean. Dean hates having to get new clothes. “Are we going to throw away the plastic?” he asks.

Dexter nods then says, “Everything expect my tools gets trashed.” A bubble of impatience wells up inside Dean. It’s going to take _forever _to clean up everything. He sighs, then begins to pull the plastic off the table.

“No.” Dexter’s hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. He points up. “We take down the ceiling covers first.” His hand sweeps outwards. “Then the walls. Then the table, and finally the floor.” His grip is firm, but not hurtful. Dean wouldn’t mind if he grasped a little tighter.

“In case the blood drips?” Dean asks.

Dexter drops his wrist. “In case the blood drips.” Dark blood arches across the ceiling like a rainbow, and Dean is amazed that the chainsaw splattered that high. It’s easy to recall the roar, and he shivers. Dexter stands on the table and pulls down the plastic. It’s a large sheet, and when it comes down Dexter’s raised hands don’t hold it all. A corner flies strait for Dean’s face, and he’s hit before he can move.

It doesn’t hurt; it’s just a piece of plastic, but he’s startled nevertheless. An embarrassing yelp jumps from his throat. The plastic is yanked off, and Dean blinks away the droplets that have caught in his eyelashes. He can’t help flushing as he looks up at Dexter. The man smirks and says, “Having issues?”

Dean frowns. “I’m fine.” He stalks over to the wall and tugs down the covering. He can feel Dexter’s gaze as he folds it into a small square. When he turns back around, Dexter has his own piece folded and is shoving it into a new garbage bag. He offers the bag out to Dean. They work quickly and quietly, Dean fighting back his urge to make small talk. Dexter isn’t the small talk type. Dean loves running his mouth.

It takes two hours to put away all the plastic, scrub the floors, bleach every surface and clean Dexter’s tools. Dean’s body aches and his stomach grumbles. Finally, Dexter peels off his gloves and throws them into the last trash bag. Dean quickly follows. His hands feel stiff, and the blood on his face has dried. “Can I have a baby wipe?” he asks. Dexter tosses him the container and Dean wipes off his face. They smell like baby powder and Lysol. They remind Dean of when Sammy was a baby and he would change his diaper and wipe him clean. Sammy would gurgle softly and Dean would blow raspberries into his tummy. His brother would smile at him and wiggles his chubby fingers wanting to be picked up. Dean always obliged.

He crumples the used wipes and throws them into the open bag. _Three points¸ _he thinks as they plop inside. “Okay, what’s next?”

A slow grin spreads across Dexter’s face. “Now we dump everything.”

Dean’s not too excited about this part. The blood’s all gone and the body’s hidden, they’re nothing fun to look at anymore. Well, there’s Dexter. He back to looking like his normal, police worker self, with spotless tan khakis and a pressed button-up polo. He’s still handsome as can be, and he seems more relaxed than Dean’s ever witnessed, but Dean is partial to blood. However, when Dexter directs him to lug the trash bags out to his minivan, Dean says nothing and obeys.  More than anything, he wants Dexter to like him.

Between the two of them, it takes six trips to get all the bags into the van. Dean can’t imagine the time it takes Dexter to clean up on his own. Dean would have just burned the place to the ground. Dexter motions him into the front seat, but this time Dean hesitates. He doesn’t know where they’re going, and the Impala has been left here long enough.

“Can I follow you in my car?”

Dexter’s eyebrows arch. Dean adds, “I don’t want to leave her here.” Dexter eyes sweep the dark street and nods.

“Get in. I’ll drive you to your car.” He does. The minivan drives smoothly, but Dean can’t imagine ever owning one. The Impala is his girl, the one and only in his life.

“Nice car,” Dexter says when Dean points it out.

Pride swells his chest. “She’s loud, but perfect. I helped build her.” Working on the car with Dad are some of the best memories Dean has. The Impala, killing and fucking are three of Dean’s favorite things. Though he would give them all up for Sammy; luckily, Sammy would never ask that of him. He’s got a great brother.

He slides behind the wheel, leather seats clutching at his still sweaty skin, and turns her on. She purrs like a wild cat and shiver of lust shakes through him. He rolls down the window and gives Dexter a heated look. The man scowls and drives away. Dean pulls out of his spot and follows. He can’t understand why Dexter won’t fuck him. Dean knows he’s beautiful, especially while sitting in the Impala. They are both sexy mother-fuckers. He thinks that Dexter likes playing hard to get. Dean’s never met anyone like that before, and it gives him pause. He’s never done the chasing; he’s not sure he likes it.   




The more they drive, the more Dean smells the ocean. A short ten minutes pass. Dexter’s led him to a marina. The parking lot is deserted; Dexter parks close to the dock entrance. Dean slides into the spot next to him. Humidity clouds the air here, more than at the house, and Dean has to breathe deep. Dexter shoves a bag his way then leads him down the dock to a boat. They haul the bags onto the deck, and Dexter shows Dean the hidey-hole in the middle of the ship. It’s a perfect space for the body parts and trash.

Dean’s never been on a boat like this before. Dad once took him and Sammy on paddle boat in Lake Erie, but a boat that’s big enough to sleep in, to live in, is something completely new.  Dexter lets him peek downstairs at the small living quarters and even steer the boat. His large hands close over Dean’s, his body near and hot, as he teaches Dean to pilot the ship. _Sammy would love this_, Dean thinks. He silently promises to take Sammy out on a boat soon.

Waves lap against the boat as they motor out to sea. There are few ships close to the dock, but when the lights from the marina fade, they’re alone. Dexter cuts the engine and the sounds of civilization fade away. Seagulls cry into the night sky and fish jump in and out of the water, trying to catch insects. Salt stings his nose, but Dean doesn’t really notice. He’s busy staring at the bright stars and the way the moon glows over Dexter’s skin. Something that’s not quite lust fills his chest.

“Dump the bags over the side,” Dexter’s voice cuts the peaceful air.

Dean leaves his spot by the wheel and walks towards the hidey-hole. His legs are like rubber. He drags the bags out, one at a time, until they’re all on deck. Dexter’s standing at the rail of the boat, watching. He doesn’t offer to help as Dean takes a bag in each hand and slowly walks to the edge of the boat. Water splashes over his shoes when the bags hit the ocean. The bags bob a few times then sink away into the inky depths. The rest go quicker. Trip after trip he heaves them up and drops them down.

Only when there’s one bag left does he pause. His fingers wrap around the rail and he looks over to Dexter. The bag falls against his side, heavy and thin. Through his pants he can feel the shape of a nose. He wants to open the bag, look at the face one more time, but he doesn’t. Dexter wouldn’t approve of that. The killer has his arms crossed, but he doesn’t look angry. Shadows cover half of his face, but Dean can see the relaxed state of his lips. He wonders if they’re chapped. He throws the bag overboard.

The rolling waves are hypnotic and Dean figures now is the time for seduction. He peels off his shirt, tucks it into his waistband, and leisurely turns around. His golden tan shimmers in the moonlight and Dexter’s eyes lock onto his chest. He kneels down, runs his hand through the water, stands, and then slowly trails it from his flat navel to the curve of his neck. Sliding upwards, he scratches his nails over his jaw, runs a finger over his bottom lip then slides it inwards to the hot cavern of his mouth. He bites down on the tip of his finger then swirls his tongue over it to sooth.

Dexter’s arms drop loosely to his side and he saunters over. Eyes bright, he takes Dean’s hand and brings the glistening finger close to his own mouth.  _Finally, _Dean thinks, arousal curling in his belly.

Then, Dexter’s grip goes tight, fingers pushing into Dean’s flesh, and he forces Dean backwards. His back slams into the rail and Dexter’s other hand snaps out and wraps around his throat. Dean gasps, but the pressure around him stops air from flowing in. He tries to lash out, strike the man, but Dexter is bigger and well trained at holding a body still. The man leans forward, mouth inches from Dean’s, and says, “You shouldn’t have followed me.”


	4. Chapter 4

There is no sound. The boat rocks with the lapping waves, pushing Dean’s bare back into the railing again and again. Gulls cry their hunting victories and dolphins joyfully stutter out their nighttime games.  Dexter’s hot breaths scorch his face. Dean hears nothing.

It’s dark enough that Dean can barely see the other side of the boat over Dexter’s broad shoulders. The single lantern sitting on the deck and the light attached to the boat’s overhang are low wattage, and their pale white glows don’t stretch far. Dean’s sure Dexter bought them because of their limited lightening.  The ocean is a dark expanse, extending forever in Dean’s imagination. Seeing doesn’t really matter thought, because gray fuzz has begun to spot his vision. Soon, the air circulating his system won’t be enough and he’ll pass out. Dexter’s grip around his throat is unforgiving; no new air is slipping in. Dean can already feel bruises forming.

After his initial struggle, his energy has leeched away. He feels nothing but the points of pain- throat, back and wrist. Dexter’s eyes are black in the dull light, black and empty. Dean can’t help but wonder what the man is thinking. _How did I read him so wrong? _he thinks. Dean prides himself on understanding people. Dad taught him to observe, to judge, and to manipulate.  Dean’s know Dexter for a month; he thought he understood the killer. He has run through dozens of scenarios on how Dexter will react to him. This territorial, fearful response isn’t one of them.

The gray spots dancing before his eyes make his stomach roll, so he shuts his eyelids and blocks out the world. With sight and hearing gone, and touch turns sensitive. Water droplets spray his back with every downward sweep of the portside. The salt water is too warm to cool, and mixes with his sweat on his sticky skin. Dean can feel the smoothness of Dexter’s fingers- callous free from working on a computer or taking pictures of bloody scenes. The socks inside his boots are water-logged and squishy, and the curve of his boots around his ankles feels rough with salt grit. The over stimulation makes him shake, and he finally thinks, _I’m going to die. _

Fear is not a common occurrence in Dean’s deck of emotions. He feels a rush of it when Dexter first grabs him, but it quickly fades into empty shock. _Still, if there is an appropriate time to fear, this is it, _he tells himself. Dean knows that once unconsciousness takes him, he’ll be done for. Dexter will push him overboard, and Dean will drown, unable to swim. Or perhaps Dexter will slice him up and stuff him into bags too. If Dean had his choice, he’ll stay whole. That way when they eventually find his body, his pretty face will be recognizable.

Even so, he doesn’t fear. He does however feel dizzy. Though he’s not sure if that’s the lack of air or the realization of death. He doesn’t want to die. Dean likes living. He likes eating greasy hamburgers and crunchy french-fries. He likes the pleasure coma of sex and the coppery smell of blood. He loves taking care of Sammy.

_Sammy. _ The name whispers through his mind. _What will Sammy do without me? How will he live? Who will watch out for him? _ Dean imagines his brother discovering his disappearance. Sammy’s alarm will go off at eight-fifteen. He’ll climb out of bed, sleepily rub his eyes, and then go brush his teeth. Still blurry-eye, he’ll tug on his clothes and run a comb through his hair. His bare feet will curl in the soft carpet as he walks down the hall to the kitchen. Something will wiggle at his sleep-fogged brain, but he’ll slide into his usual seat at the table and wait for Dean to set a glass of juice and a bowl of Lucky Charms in front of him.  Silence will hang in the air. They’ll be no juice, no cereal, no good-morning hugs and forehead kisses. Sammy will blink in surprise and look around the room.

Everything will be as Dean left it the night before. The coffee pot will be set to go, ready for Dean’s finger to flip it on. Sammy’s blue plastic bowl will be set out, spoon already laying inside, both waiting for cereal and milk. The stove and counter top will be clean, no breakfast tools cluttering their surfaces. Rising, Sammy will call out, “Dean?” He’ll slide a butcher knife from the knife block on the counter and stalk down the hallway. He’ll open Dean’s bedroom door and find it empty. Worry will clench his gut and he’ll start to panic. Screaming out his brother’s name he’ll search the whole apartment, the whole complex, and then the neighborhood.  When he find’s nothing, he’ll go to the police. Sammy’s smart enough to suspect Dexter and he’ll make sure to go to Dexter’s department to cry. The police will organize a hunt, and for a while Sammy will be occupied with getting revenge. He’ll torture Dexter with half-veiled threats and sneaky subterfuge. Then he’ll strike Dexter down, and everything will be over. He’ll be alone. Dean promised Sammy he’d never leave him alone.      




Dexter won’t let go if he thinks Dean is awake, so Dean collapses. He lets his body hang, his limbs relax and pretends to be lifeless. Dexter doesn’t release him right away. He follows Dean to the wet floor of the boat, long fingers still wrapped around Dean’s throat. Dean counts ten long seconds before Dexter let’s go. Dean smiles. In an instant his own hands are wrapped around the man’s shoulders and his knee spears upwards. It lands exactly where Dean planned- into Dexter’s soft balls. Dexter, like every other man alive, cups his groin too comfort and protect from more injury. He lets out a grunted, “Fuck!”

Dean gives him no time to recover.  The hard sole of his combat boot slams into Dexter’s right kneecap. The man goes down hard. Dean takes a precious second to roll over and scramble to his feet. The deck is slick and it takes two tries to get up. The boat is still rocking and Dean has to grip the railing to keep from falling. He’s gasping for breath, and his head’s begun to hurt. Nevertheless, he quickly turns around to finish off his captor. They’re eyes meet, a clash of angry heat, and Dexter lunges forward.

The man grabs for his ankle, intending to pull him back down, but Dean jumps backwards. The few feet between them are enough for Dexter to clamber to his feet. Under his intense stare Dean thinks, _I need to finish this, or Dexter is going to win. _The killer is bigger, more experienced than Dean, and more stable on a boat. Dean doesn’t take his eyes off the man as he steps three long paces back. Understanding flashes in Dexter’s eyes, and he tries to get to Dean first, but Dean is too quick. In two breaths he picks up the lantern and smashes it over Dexter’s head.

The glass frame and bulb explode. Dexter shakes his head, sending glittering glass flakes everywhere, and for a moment Dean worries it isn’t enough. Then Dexter crumples. Little rivers of blood pour from the man’s head onto the white deck. He had taken the hit on the back of the skull, so Dean can’t see where most of the blood originates. There are few gashes, with glass poking out of skin, along Dexter’s forehead, but that’s all Dean can make out. Water splashes over the side of the boat washing around Dexter. It pulls the blood and broken glass away as it slides back into the ocean.

Dean takes a few deep breaths and kicks Dexter to make sure he’s out. He doesn’t want to fall for the same trick he pulled. The man doesn’t move. Slowly, Dean inches forward the bends down to feel Dexter’s neck. A slow pulse beats under his fingertips. Dean looks around and spies a shard of glass the size of a dollar-bill. Carefully picking it up, he rolls Dexter over and presses the glass to the tan skin of his throat. The sharp edge cuts the skin with barely any pressure and blood kisses the clear glass. Dean pushes a little harder and a squirt of blood tickles his fingertips.

He pulls back. Dexter’s face is covered with squiggles of blood. It was as if someone had stood above the man with bloody fingers and waited while the blood dripped down his face. Dean reaches out and runs his bloody finger across Dexter’s closed eyelashes. They’re soft. He moves down Dexter’s face, sweeping his cheek like a lover’s caress, and settles over the man’s lips. Dean traces the top lip first and the bottom lip last. He smears the blood around, pretending it’s lipstick. He thinks about all the time and energy spent learning about the man. He thinks about Dexter’s kill, and the way he chopped the rapist into pieces.

Sighing, he throws the shard into the ocean and drags Dexter under the overhang. He wipes his hands on his jeans, and starts the engine. Thankful for the earlier driving lesson, Dean turns the boat around and goes back the way they came. He uses his innate sense of direction to guide himself back to the marina. Parking the boat is harder than he expects, and he ends up hitting the dock four times and another boat once. He’ll leave the recovery to Dexter. _At least nobody else is here, _he thinks.

Once he’s got the boat back in place, he cuts the engine and jumps onto the wooden dock. He twists the anchoring rope around the metal handle until he’s sure the boat won’t drift away. The boat wobbles when he steps back on. He walks back over to Dexter and pats down the man’s pockets. There, in the back left pocket he finds a cell phone. _Bingo_. Before he uses the thing, he checks the boat over, wiping down anything that could hold his prints or DNA. He flips open the phone, slightly amazed the thing still works wet, and dials 9-1-1. The operator asks, “9-1-1, how can I help you?” and Dean drops the phone onto Dexter’s chest.

He jogs back to the Impala, ignoring his aches and pains. Just the sight of her beautiful black sides makes him feel lighter. This night has been an utter failure. The leather seats are like a mother’s embrace, and he gives himself a moment to rest his head against the seat. The sun is peaking over the horizon, and Dean needs to get home and clean himself up before Sammy wakes up. The car purrs to life with the turn of his key and he roars out of there.

As he drives down the interstate he can’t help but wonder if he’s done the right thing. Thoughts of what Dexter’s going to do shuffle through his mind. He pushes them away. Whatever happens will happen, and the only thing Dean needs to worry about now is getting everything finished before Sammy’s ready for breakfast. _Maybe I’ll make him eggs. _Eggs sound perfect.  


	5. Chapter 5

Sammy hums his pleasure over his last bite of breakfast then asks, “Where were you all night?”

Dean licks ketchup off his fork. “What’da mean?” He pretends innocence.

Sammy doesn’t buy it. “You were gone all night.” His fork clangs against his plate and he adds, “Plus, you’re wearing a turtle neck, and it’s like a billion degrees outside.”

Dean picks up their dishes and takes them to the sink. He flips the faucet up and lets the water cover his answer. “I met Dexter.”

Sammy pulls the blue dish towel from the stove handle and begins to dry. His leg presses into Dean’s. “What? I couldn’t hear you.” Dean doesn’t turn to look, but he knows Sammy is staring at him with those hazel eyes. He can imagine his brother’s narrowed brows and clenched jaw. For being eleven, Sammy is such a worry-wart. “Well?” he whines. 

_Have some patience, _Dean thinks. It’s only been a few hours since he left Dexter bleeding on the boat, but his whole body is already screaming. His shoulders and arms feel stiff with overuse, and the bruises on his neck ache with every tiny swallow and turn.  Dean doesn’t want to talk to his brother about the night. A man needs his secrets.

The water continues to run, but Dean’s stopped washing.  His hands begin to turn pink under the heat. Sammy reaches up with a sigh and flips down the handle. The sink drains with a swirling gurgle and soon the only sounds are their matched breaths. Sammy nudges his hip and wraps his long fingers around Dean’s elbow. “Well?”

Dean caves. “I met Dexter last night,” he says. He focuses on the peeling paint above the sink.  

Sammy’s fingers tighten around him. “What happened?” There’s a hint of apprehension in his brother’s voice. Sammy knows him too well.

“It didn’t go like I planned.” There’s a tug on his sleeve. Dean closes his eyes, takes a breath then looks at his brother. Sammy looks as he imagined. Two small worry lines scrunch above his nose and his lips are pressed together in small frown.

“Tell me about it.”

Dean wipes his hands on the front of his jeans then hurries back to the table. He needs to sit. The wooden chair is hard beneath him and suddenly, the greasy smell of bacon makes him queasy.  Sammy slides into the chair next to him. A socked foot rubs against his bare one. He crosses his arm and leans back into the chair. His muscles protest; he really needs a hot bath. “It started off like normal. I was following him,” Dean begins. “I wasn’t planning on letting myself be known.”

Sammy nods.

Dean continues. “But then I saw him nab somebody. A rapist.”  Sammy’s eyes go wide. Dean recants the night. He tells Sammy about watching Dexter kill, about being discovered. “The blood, Sammy, it was so beautiful. Thick and red, and everywhere.” Dean leans forward, placing his hands on the table. Sammy leans in to meet him. “He uses a chainsaw to cut up the bodies.” Sammy shudders then licks his lips.  

“He let you help?” Sammy asks, mouth parted.

“I helped put the body parts in trash bags,” Dean replies. “He’s real organized. The whole place was covered in plastic and he had all these special tools. A professional.” There’s a wistful tone in his voice. Dean explains how long it took to clean up everything.

When he gets to the part with the boat Sammy butts in, “That was stupid! You shouldn’t have gotten on a boat with him! He could have done something to you, and you would have been far away!” Pink tints Sammy’s cheeks. It matches the color of his own, though Dean knows his is from embarrassment.  

“He tried to,” Dean says. Sammy’s eyes narrow and he adds, “Do something to me. After I dumped the body parts he tried to choke me.” Sammy’s mouth presses into a line at that. He stands and walks over to Dean. He pulls back the neck of Dean’s shirt and tries to get a look. The bruises are too far down. 

“Take it off.” Dean obeys and sets the shirt on the table. There’s a small intake of breath and then, “Jesus!” Sammy’s soft fingers trace the outlines of the bruises. Dean knows what they look like. Black and purple impressions of a man’s hand. The thumb and long curve between it and the pointer finger decorate the skin above his jugular. The bruises continue around his neck, four imprints of fingers marking him. There’s also a horizontal stripe on his back from being pushed into the railing. It’s easily visible, but Sammy hasn’t looked there yet.   

He presses a little too hard and Dean flinches. “Sorry,” Sammy mutters.  The pressure lightens. Sammy traces the whole bruise, like he’s forcing it to memory. “He’s dead?” It’s more of a statement than a question. Sammy just wants confirmation. Dean shakes his head. Sammy steps back. “What?”

Dean tells his brother about their fight. “He was down, bleeding all over the place, and I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t kill him.”He bows his head, staring at the table as he speaks.

Sammy wraps his arms around himself and lowers his eyes. Dean doesn’t like that. “It’s just that I’ve been following him all this time, and when he killed- it was amazing. I had never seen anything like it Sammy.” Sammy doesn’t say anything, so Dead reaches out and grabs his shoulder. “Sammy…”

“He hurt you and you didn’t kill him!” Sammy snaps, throwing off his brother’s arm. “Dean, that’s reckless! What’s he going to do when he get better? He’s going to come looking for you. He’s going to gank you!”

Dean jumps up, knocking the chair backwards. “I don’t even know if he survived! He could have bled out by the time the cops got there.”

Sammy’s mouth drops open and his chest deflates. “You called the police?” His arms unravel and hang limply by his sides. His brother looks the picture of defeated shock.

Dean doesn’t know what to say. He tries, several times, to find the words to make this alright, to make Sammy understand. He can’t. So instead he steps forward and pulls his brother to his chest. Sammy’s hair tickles his bare skin as he buries his face into Dean. Something warm and wet drips down skin and settles in his belly button. A lump forms in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Sammy lifts his head and Dean can see his eyes are wet. “You love him,” Sammy says hoarsely, like he’d been crying for hours.

Dean shakes his head.

“Why aren’t I enough?” Sammy asks.

Dean’s heart takes a nose dive into his stomach.  He runs a hand through Sammy’s hair and settles his palm at the curve of his brother’s nape. “Sammy, “ Dean begins. His mouth fills with heavy air and suddenly it’s hard to speak. He really has no idea what to say. He doesn’t love Dexter, truly he doesn’t, but he can’t deny he wants the man. He wants the killer’s orders and a demand for obedience. Even since Dad died there’s been this man-shaped hole in his chest. Dean desperately wants it to be filled.  

When he discovered Dexter, who Sammy helped find Dean might add, he couldn’t help but notice the man fit the outline of the hole almost perfectly. Dexter is smart, way smarter than Dad ever was; he’s clean-cut and organized. He’s smooth and graceful and undeniably ruthless. The perfect predator. All things Dean wants in a man. The only thing Dexter is not is family. He’s not Sammy.

“Sammy, “ he says again. Tearful hazel eyes stare up at him, and Dean falls to his knees.  This way, Dean’s a little shorter than his brother. The top of his head comes to Sammy’s nose. _I wonder what it would be like if Sammy really was bigger than me. _The thought sends a pleasant shiver through Dean’s body.  It’s hard to imagine though. Sammy looks so different at eleven than Dean did. By that age, Dean had already lost all of his baby fat; his body had started to lengthen and he was a skinny, angled mess. Dad always said that Dean grew up fast. Sammy on the other hand, was almost twelve and he still had the rounded face and wide eyes of boyhood. Some days Dean can’t wait for his brother to grow up; other days he hopes Sammy never loses his boyish charms.

Dean licks his lips and lets his head fall against his little brother’s shoulder. He can feel the _thud-thud-thud_ of Sammy’s heartbeat and rushed heat of blood beneath his skin. “There’s no one in the world I love more than you.” It’s said softly, because Dean is too wounded to be forceful, but he’s close enough to Sammy’s ear that he’s sure his brother can feel his moist breath with his declaration.

“Then why do you need someone else?” Sammy words rumble through his chest.

“I just need someone to guide me,” Dean admits. “I need a man to tell me what to do. I need someone to follow.” It’s not something Dean’s ever said aloud before, but it’s something he’s been thinking a lot about lately.

“But why?” Sammy asks. It’s clear he doesn’t understand. Dean’s not quite sure he understands himself.

“I just do. I don’t feel right unless I have a hand to steer me. Maybe it’s something Dad taught me; maybe I was just born with it. I don’t know.”

Dean chews on his thoughts while Sammy just stands still. Finally, Sammy says, “Why can’t it be me?” Underneath his question is a steel edge. Something dark and wonderful, and Dean knows that given a few years Sammy will be the perfect fit.

Dean lifts his head and looks into his brother’s eyes. The tears have stopped, though evidence of their existence remains in Sammy’s red-rimmed eyes. He takes a deep breath, praying for strength. Telling his brother no is hardest thing he’s ever had to do. “You’re just not ready yet,” Dean says. _Physically, you don’t fit what I want, _he confesses to himself. _You’re still a little boy. _Sammy’s eyes go dark and hard, and Dean adds, “In a few years, when you’ve grown a few more inches, experienced a few more things, you’ll be ready.”

Sammy takes a step back, leaving Dean cold. Dean’s afraid he’s done the wrong thing. Then Sammy says, “Okay.” Relief makes Dean’s skin ache. He leans forward to give his brother another hug, but Sammy stops him with a hand to his chest. Left hand spayed wide, Sammy raises his right and begins to trace Dean’s bruises again. The pressure is painful, but this time Sammy doesn’t pull away. A sense of wonderment fills Dean’s heart.

"If Dexter is the one you want, Dexter will be the one you get,” Sammy says with determination. His expression is one straight from Dad- intense and unyielding. Dean can’t stop the shiver that takes his body.  

 He can’t wait until his brother is the perfect man.


End file.
